SKETCHBOOK: LOOK HOMEWARD, ANGEL

 photo sf3_zpsd31e16db.jpg  photo sf2_zps571ca7dc.jpg  photo sf6_zpsb9dbd5a5.jpg  photo sf7_zpsf4964466.jpg  photo sf10_zps893bfc52.jpg  photo sf4_zpse176ae91.jpg  photo sf9_zps5d79ce9d.jpg  photo sf1_zpsa8f60bbd.jpg  photo sf8_zps9a7f04a6.jpg  photo sf5_zps1985bf32.jpg  photo sf11_zps9214620b.jpg

So, I've been away travelling for the past six weeks, around Europe and a little time back home on the north coast of New South Wales. Most of the above pages are from Italy and Spain, except the first few, which were drawn on my parents' farm, the product of 3am-jetlag-wake-ups and about 10 cups of tea in a row, as I celebrated my reunion with the good black leaves.

I'm now back in my normal world in Melbourne: I wake up to familiar bird calls and distant traffic hums; the tapwater tastes as it should; I no longer have to be alert to train stations as they slide past on the way to work; I know where to eat, where to shop, where to avoid; my desk in the office is the same as I left it, and the computer still has the same quirks; I pass the same people at lunchtime, and on the commute home; and, at the end of the day, the ignition, steering wheel and pedals of my car are all comfortingly mine. 


Which all sounds entirely mundane.


And maybe it is, but I've realised that I actually thrive on routine and repetition; in days largely constructed of auto-pilot and well-worn paths. Because it is in the spaces around those routines, in the times when I can just let my mind wander, that I explore the other avenues and let my mind expand into different ideas and territories. For me -- and this is, of course, not for everyone -- routine creates a scaffolding of things-I-don't-have-to-think-too-hard-about, upon which I can hang a whole bunch of other weird magic musings and half-spun plans.

So I guess that means I'm happy to be home. At least, until the next bout of restless unease or wretched homesickness for the coast sets in ...